


Connect

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Con Artists, Focus, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same old story—conman meets conman. Everything follows from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsonxflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/gifts).



He watched the room, as was his custom. They sat him in the center—less than ideal. Center tables made you more conspicuous, you had to work harder to watch the room without attracting attention, and Meyer never liked to sit with his back exposed. Old habits. The phrase was stale, but that didn’t make it less true. People were predictable. You could figure the odds of anything if you knew someone’s habits. 

His glass of water sat empty, but the waiter kept passing him by without bothering to stop. Meyer might have expected better service out of such a well-to-do restaurant—but then, he should have worn something other than a shabby brown blazer that was about as high class as the 24-hour corner store where he’d bought many of his meals as a boy. You had to dress the part if you wanted to look like somebody in the upper echelons. But Meyer thrived on looking like nobody at all. 

A petite woman—her hair startlingly straight—cast him a pitying smile as she passed arm-in-arm with a meaty man glued to his phone. People always pitied people who ate alone. Pity—unpleasant as it was—could be useful. Someone to be pitied was not a threat. 

The bar boasted the usual appearance for a place like that—modern stools, sleek design, _avante garde_ lighting. Beneath, all sorts of well-to-dos and wanna-be well-to-dos of New York’s up-and-coming class sipped their colorful drinks and made acquaintances over coy glances and false smiles. The room was full of marks. Rich people loved to get drunk and flash their wealth. 

Speaking of which… A glimmer caught Meyer’s eye. There was a woman at the bar, tossing back a cosmopolitan and beaming at the man beside her. She was blissfully unaware that he had just pocketed her bracelet. In a place like that, Meyer didn’t even have to see the stones to estimate how much they were worth. 

He raised his glass to his lips, remembered it was still empty, and set it back on the table with a clunk of disappointment. He tried not to steal from people who worked hard for their living, though the temptation to target the waiter was becoming more and more appealing—more for spite than for profit. Still, the scene at the bar had sparked his interest. He wasn’t the only person in the room with slippery fingers. And while that other man’s touch could use a little greasing, there was something in his smile, in the earnest expression Meyer imagined worked wonders on everyone. No wonder the woman hadn’t noticed his—rather amateur—theft. 

Until, of course, she did. No sooner had the thought crossed Meyer’s mind, the woman glanced at her wrist, followed by the invariable side-to-side scanning the floor. Panic increased, she waved over the bartender, and her drinking companion put up a good show of searching with her. She finally rounded on him, manicured finger jabbed beneath his chin. Meyer watched, to see if he’d cave or try to run. Instead, the man stepped back, looking deeply affronted, and walked off… right to Meyer. 

He sat down beside him and smiled that same charming smile, immediately leaning in to kiss his cheek. Meyer stared. 

“You mind bein’ my boyfriend?” the man asked, point blank. 

“I— _beg your pardon_?” That was a new trick, and Meyer knew _a lot_ of tricks.  

The stranger just waved his hand, as though this were a commonplace request, and gestured to the woman at the bar. “She been havin’ a few too many, I think,” he explained in a voice of false concern. “Real shame.” 

Oh, is that what it was? Meyer just nodded along, thinking of the bracelet in the man’s pocket. Still, it was a clever getaway. The man could latch onto a new mark, while using the rules of social conduct to escape accusation. The woman from the bar would—and _had_ —turned her accusations towards the bartender. She wouldn’t intrude on her prior companion, not while he was sitting with his date and _sliding his hand up Meyer’s leg—_

“Do you _mind_?” he snapped and pushed the stranger’s hand away. Even if he was just sneaking closer to Meyer’s pocket to snatch his wallet, that was not a place for hands— _especially_ not strange hands.

“Look, if you’re straight, I won’t tell nobody about your boyfriend,” he smirked, leaning close and begging Meyer to play along—at least, that’s how Meyer would _prefer_ to interpret that expression. 

Meyer adjusted his jacket and tried not to look as ruffled as he felt. “You could at least tell me your name first.” Thigh touches were still not allowed, but names were useful. 

The man sat back in his chair, smiling and unfazed. He still had that look of adoring fascination his face. In the back of his mind, Meyer wondered how many people had fallen for that look. “Charlie,” he answered with an easy grin. “You?” 

“Meyer,” he replied and looked Charlie over. He was turned towards him, head inclined, and everything about his body language suggested intimacy. No doubt this made marks trust him, made them feel special and important, until Charlie could nip something pricey and move onto the next one. 

Which raised an interesting question. Meyer looked like the least impressive person in the entire restaurant. He didn’t seem like someone with millions in his pocket or a pricy watch worth lifting. So then, why him? If Charlie thought he simply looked like an easy mark, well—he was wrong and Meyer was insulted. Maybe he was just the only one alone, the only one who’d fit the boyfriend rouse. Maybe that whole “pitiable and non-threatening” look was turning against him. 

It was also hard to think such things through when Charlie was still staring at Meyer like that—with a look that suggested either standing-at-the-altar or climbing-into-bed, and it was remarkably difficult to tell the two apart. If Meyer had anything of value in his pockets, he might have been concerned. 

Charlie pointed with his pinkie at Meyer’s empty glass. “Great service around here, huh?” 

Meyer smiled, shrugged, and said not to worry about it, but Charlie waved over the waiter with a grin that might have summoned the chef himself. “Hey, can we get a little wine? We been waitin’ all night— _and_ it’s our anniversary,” he confessed, tossing an adoring smile at Meyer for show, who returned the look as best he could. Seduction cons were not his forte. 

The waiter apologized profusely and hurried off. Charlie looked at Meyer for approval and he nodded. He couldn’t turn down wine and the chance to observe Charlie’s technique. “So how long have we been together?” Meyer asked, with wry amusement. A good con needed the right details, after all. 

But Charlie feigned an expression of deep hurt, hand over his heart. “You don’t _remember_? Five years we been together, and you forget our anniversary?” 

“I’ll make it up to you,” Meyer promised with a grin. Charlie’s eyelids fluttered in a way that made Meyer worry he’d be held to his word. Maybe he _should_ have just handed over his wallet. It would have been simpler. 

The waiter returned with a bottle of red wine, “on the house,” as an apology for the wait—or because Charlie had that look about him, that no doubt elicited favors left and right.  They ordered dinner, followed by more wine, then followed by a large slice of painfully sweet chocolate mousse cake that Charlie insisted they share “to commemorate their special night.” By the time they got the check, Meyer was surprised to see that most of the night’s crowd had already cleared out. He and Charlie had eaten and chatted the night away. 

“Thanks. You know, for earlier,” Charlie confessed in a low voice, leaning towards him with his chin resting in his hands. The low light and the drowsiness behind Meyer’s eyes—was that the wine?—made the expression especially enticing. 

Meyer said it was no problem, as he looked over their bill. So maybe they _had_ wracked up quite a sum, and maybe Charlie _wasn’t_ making any moves to get his wallet. If Charlie’s big con was one free meal, Meyer would let it happen. He could afford it and Charlie’s company was—admittedly—not bad. Besides, he could easily snag the pricey bracelet from the other man’s pocket before they parted. That seemed a fair exchange. Meyer slid his card into the placard and left it for the waiter.

"You’re a real good date,” Charlie said, lips coyly placed around the rim of his glass as he finished the last of their wine. 

“Well, you’d be the first person to ever think so, but thank you,” Meyer replied. They smiled at one another and Meyer quickly looked away. He noticed the woman from earlier—clearly distraught—in frantic conversation with a man Meyer could only assume was the manager. “Your friend from earlier doesn’t look like she had as good a night,” he pointed out. 

Charlie took only a half second glance, before adjusting himself with his back to the woman, nervous and out of sight. “Tough luck,” he shrugged. No doubt many wealthy women—and men—found their luck turning sour when Charlie turned up.

With the tip on the table and an expensive dinner on Meyer’s card, they both stood and hesitated around their empty dishes. They were both playing a game, but Meyer wasn’t about to wait his turn and lose his chance. 

“Would you like me to walk you home, too?” Meyer teased, knowing it would be easier to slip the bracelet from Charlie’s pocket on a dark street. Besides, it seemed fitting to offer, given their staged anniversary date. 

In a move he didn’t expect, Charlie leaned in, put his hand on Meyer’s waist, and whispered, “Yeah, I would, thanks. I’m stayin’ in the hotel upstairs.”  

* * *

Charlie didn’t waste a second. He closed the door behind them, grabbed Meyer by the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him into a kiss. Charlie’s back hit the hotel wall. They moved to the bed, and Charlie pulled Meyer down on top. 

He had to move fast; it was always easier when everything happened in a rush. Charlie kicked off his shoes, wrapped his legs around Meyer, and hooked his ankles. Hands tangled in hair. His teeth grazed Meyer’s neck. Charlie was just starting to fumble with Meyer’s belt when the door flew open and hit the wall with a thud. 

“Fuck! Fuck—” Charlie tossed Meyer aside, scrambling from the bed. “Fuck, fuck, that’s my boyfriend. Hey, _watch_ it, Tonino—” 

The gun pressed into Meyer’s temple a section later. 

“What d'you think you’re doin’?” Tonino demanded, shoving the barrel of the gun for emphasis. “I’ll, uh—I’ll blow your brains out!” 

“C’mon we was just messin’ around, don’t—” 

“Don’t think I won’t do it!” 

“Please, go right ahead. Get it over with,” Meyer interrupted with a tremendous sigh. Charlie and Tonino both fell silent and stared at him. The fuck was he playing at? 

Tonino retracted the gun slightly as he looked to Charlie for guidance, disbelief and uncertainty plain on his face. Charlie’s brown furrowed, but he tried to keep going. “Uh—don’t—don’t test him Meyer, he’s fucked up in the head! He’ll do it!” he stammered. 

“Yeah, I’m fucked up in the head!” Tonino agreed and raised the gun again.

Meyer just shrugged. “Alright.” Charlie had never seen someone so unconcerned at gunpoint. “Look, you’re angry. Understandable. With what his pretty lips were about to be doing, I can’t blame you.” 

Charlie perked up. He and Tonino exchanged a glance, as Charlie sat back down on the edge of the bed. In an undertone, he muttered, “You think my lips are pretty?” 

“They’re… not bad,” Meyer answered with a note of discomfort, and swiftly added in a much calmer tone, “Besides, I’ve only got six months to live. You might as well put me out of my misery now.” 

“What?” Tonino breathed in absolute shock, while Charlie rolled his eyes and slumped back against the headboard. They were fucked. 

Meyer nodded, earnest. “It’s true. I’ve got Riemann Sum. It’s very serious, very _painful_ , and sadly there’s no cure. Six months. That’s it. So you might as well just shoot me.” 

“Look, Charlie, I—I’m not gonna shoot a guy who’s sick. I don’t seem right,” Tonino explained with a shrug as he lowered the gun. Charlie could have smacked him. 

“He’s not _sick_ , he’s fucking with you!—You know what, fuck off. Fuck off, Tonino, you fuckin’ blew it!” 

“What? I just did the same thing as always!” he protested, and in a softer voice—as though hoping Meyer wouldn’t hear—he added, “How was I s’posed to know the guy’s got an illness?”  

“He doesn’t _have_ a fuckin’ illness! How hard is it to hold a gun to a guy’s head? How d’you fuck that up? It’s not hard, right?” He glanced to Meyer for support, who nodded in agreement. Charlie stood from the bed and started re-buttoning his shirt. “Un-fuckin’-belivevable…” 

Meyer rose with him and gathered his jacket from the floor, brushing it off with his hands before slipping it on. “The schtick needs work. You—” he said, pointing to Tonino, “I don’t buy it. I need to believe you’d actually shoot me and I’m not feeling that.” 

“And you—” he continued, this time looking to Charlie. They stared at one another across the dimly lit room, but Meyer hesitated. At last, he said, “Just… Don’t let anybody  rattle you. And don’t _ever_ tip your hand.” 

Charlie exhaled. He didn’t know why he was so relieved. Meyer was a _mark_ , after all, so what did it matter what he thought? But the guy was clever, quick on his feet, and he was fearless, too. He was a damn good step up from Tonino, at the very least. 

“So when’d you figure me out, huh?” Charlie asked. He must have known the con before Tonino came in; no one could be _that_ cool under pressure. 

Meyer reached into his pants pocket. He pulled something out and tossed it to Charlie. He caught it and stared—the woman’s bracelet. “How’d you—?” 

“Elevator,” Meyer explained with a wiggle of his hand. “You should be more careful who you let paw at you in a tight space.” 

Charlie didn’t look up, turning the jewelry around in his hands. He had a lot of questions, but he couldn’t figure out why Meyer would give it back. Didn’t he know how much it was worth? Why go through all the trouble to steal it in the first place? But instead, he just muttered, “How’d you know I had it?” 

Meyer shrugged, with a quirk of a smile that Charlie almost missed. “Saw you take it. Bad swipe.” 

“Excuse you? That was a good ass swipe, she was wearin’ it any everything—I even undid the fuckin’ _clasp_ , and she didn’t know!” He pocketed the bracelet—again—unable to help his scowl. That was _not_ a bad lift. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? “Hey, listen, if you’re so fuckin’ smart, how come you came up with me, huh?” Charlie was determined to prove that he must have pulled _something_ over on Meyer. 

But Meyer looked cool as ever, his hands clasped behind his back. He headed towards the door, giving Charlie one last look, an expression of contemplation on his face. “Like I said, pretty lips.” 

Before Charlie could respond, Meyer was gone. “Keep practicing!” he called back over his shoulder, as the door swung shut behind him. 

Charlie stared after him, stunned, until Tonino muttered, “So what’s the price on that bracelet?” 

“Fuck off.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The summer tourists passed in large, slow-moving groups. They reveled in their weekend nonchalance and gaped up at the skyline, selfies and cellphones all around. There was a reason Meyer loathed Midtown. 

But he had business—or rather, he had cancelled his real business in favor of pursuing something more interesting. Literally pursuing, in fact. 

Half a block ahead of him, Meyer watched as Charlie stole a watch from a street vendor—the ones who sell knock-off goods to unwitting tourists, who probably realize their falsity but buy them anyway for the novelty. Charlie slipped it into his pocket without a backward glance, as the vendor haggled with some out-of-towners. Meyer couldn’t understand why anyone who bother to steal a fake, but he was curious to find out. 

Meyer quickened his pace. He plowed into a love-struck couple with a tiny, tiny dog. They apologized, he didn’t, and Meyer hurried to cross the street and close the gap between himself and Charlie. 

He’d first noticed the familiar curly head seven blocks ago, headed uptown. Without thinking about, he’d crossed the street and changed directions to follow. More than anything else, Meyer rationalized as he hurried down the sidewalk, he was taken by surprise. It wasn’t often he bumped into familiar faces barely a month after their first meeting—especially not familiar faces that had once posed as his boyfriend for the evening. 

But it was just his professional curiosity, he reasoned. If he and Charlie were going to run into one another often, he’d like to know just what kind of operations Charlie ran. That could be advantageous for his own business, too. It helped to know who else was working the same area—and whether they should be trusted, stopped, or ignored. 

With all the effort he put into his pursuit, Meyer sorely hoped Charlie did more than lift wrist wear. Stolen watches were not worth the bother. 

“Hey!” he called out, but Charlie didn’t hear. He dodged around a group of lost-looking teenagers. When he finally caught up, Meyer slowed and elbowed Charlie in the side. He jumped. 

“That doesn’t make you look guilty at all,” Meyer noted with a wry smile, as he watched the flight-or-fight alarm fade from his face. Charlie sighed with relief and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets—protecting his goods, Meyer imagined. Of course, it was a moot point by then. 

“You stalkin’ me now?” Charlie asked, pulling an easy grin to mask his surprise.  

Meyer shrugged and slid his hands into his pockets, mirroring him. “Of course not, Mr. Salvatore Lucania, born November 24th 1987, not an organ donor.” 

He froze in the middle of the sidewalk. The humor fell from his face. “What the _fuck_?” 

“Relax,” Meyer said, momentarily wary. He pulled the wallet from his pocket and tossed it to him. Charlie caught it with an impressive look of mingled anger and bewilderment. “I saw you a couple blocks back. Took your wallet while you were taking that woman’s iPhone.” 

The scowl faded, but he still looked uneasy. “So you’re just fuckin’ with me, right? No background check shit?” 

“Right,” Meyer promised. “Just some friendly larceny, that’s all.” 

“Just you showin’ off,” he grumbled, as he looked through his wallet to make sure everything was there. He tucked it away and they continued walking. After a lengthy pause, he finally blurted, “And that ain’t even my name, anyway.” 

“Is it a fake?” Meyer asked. If so, it was a damn good fake—and he’d seen plenty. They all had alibis like that, and it wouldn’t surprise Meyer if he carried a dupe wallet. 

But Charlie just shook his head and said, “No. It’s just wrong, that’s all.”

“Alright,” Meyer responded without hesitation. He could see Charlie relax immediately with his acceptance. His shoulders drooped back as he fell back into his casual gait. Meyer wasn’t about to make an enemy over a state-issued non-driving ID. Besides, he didn’t want to dig into Charlie’s reasons. Intimate details were only useful for marks, for for finding weak points and routes to trust. He didn’t need the burden of that knowledge with an acquaintance. 

“You know,” Charlie began, his voice more relaxed. “It ain’t wrong about my birthday. So that gives you a couple’a months to buy me a present.” 

Meyer laughed, surprised. “How about I just buy you a coffee instead?” There was a Starbucks on the next corner—hardly unusual in that part of town—and Meyer suggested they head over. 

Charlie agreed. But with a dramatic sigh, he grumbled, “Some boyfriend you are. First you forget our anniversary, then you don’t get me nothin’ for my birthday?” Meyer didn’t respond, pointedly looking away as he opened the door to Starbucks. 

They made smalltalk as they waited in line. So long as he wasn’t angry or flirting, Charlie was easy to talk to. Once they had their drinks—Meyer’s simple, and Charlie’s so elaborate that Meyer wondered how the poor barista even managed to remember it—they found a table together in the corner. 

With a guilty expression, Meyer slid a gold card across the table to him. “Sorry. I lied about treating you. Figured you owed me one, since I gave that bracelet back.”  

Charlie scowled as he picked up his Starbucks card and put it back in his wallet. “You lift anything else from me?” 

“No, but I can, if you’d like,” Meyer teased as he stirred his coffee.  

“How’s about you keep your hands to yourself for now?” Charlie said as his lips puckered around the green straw. He glanced up at him with a look in his eye—the same look from the other night—that suggested “for now” was a short span of time.  

“So do you just rove the streets of New York and take anything with a big price tag?” Meyer asked by way of changing the subject, staring down at his coffee. 

Charlie slurped at the whipped cream on top and said, “Mostly.” 

They talked shop for a while, unconcerned about eavesdroppers. It was a crowded Starbucks in Midtown on a Saturday in late summer. The place was full of people who came and went with their orders. No one stayed long enough to overhear. Besides, that was the charm of New York. No one cared about anybody else’s business. It was advantageous in more ways than one. 

He learned that larceny was, in fact, Charlie’s speciality. Though, he pulled off what he called “bigger shit” with a wealthy woman or man who wanted a weekend companion. Seduction and theft—two of Meyer’s least favorite money-making methods. Charlie didn’t mention his partner from their last encounter. Meyer distantly wondered if Tonino dropping their con with him had been the breaking point—but he didn’t want to probe into “partner” territory just yet. 

Meyer talked a little about what he did—but not much. He wasn’t one to talk about himself unless he had to. Although, Charlie had a way about him. It wasn’t those looks or glances of seduction that Meyer observed—as though that sort of thing worked on him anyway. More than anything else, he liked Charlie’s enthusiasm. He was a thief who liked what he did. He was so effusive that Meyer could tell he didn’t have anyone else he really connected with. Everyone was either mark or pawn. Meyer could understand that loneliness. 

“So how’d you get started?” Charlie finally asked, prying the plastic lid off his drink. He tipped the cup back and let the rest of his frappuccino slide into his mouth. He licked his lips as Meyer picked at the edge of his napkin, considering. 

“You first,” he finally said. He wasn’t sure if there was a time or a place for that conversation—but if there were, it wasn’t in Starbucks. 

Charlie pouted and said that wasn’t playing fair, that he asked first, but he agreed to talk. “Didn’t have too many choices. Figured it was this or workin’ fifteen hours a day doin’ some bullshit that don’t pay nothin’.” 

He paused and split the plastic of his empty cup with his hands. He fiddled with the loose ends. He spoke in a rush—like ripping off a bandaid. “I dropped outta high school. Could’a finished, didn’t want to. And then when my dad kicked me out, I hadda do somethin’ or I’d be sleepin’ under a bridge.” Without looking up, he ripped the cup clean in two. “Your turn.” 

There were questions unanswered, but Meyer wouldn’t pry. He suspected Charlie wouldn’t answer even if he did. Of course, after Charlie admitted all that, it didn’t seem fair to dodge out of sharing something himself. Unfortunately. 

He could lie and create a new story for himself; he did that often enough, anyway. But some part of Meyer wanted to talk, just a little. He couldn’t give everything, but he wanted to share some glimpse of truth. Maybe it was imprudent; maybe that didn’t matter. But Charlie seemed like the first person who genuinely wanted an answer. “I guess you could say it’s an inheritance,” he began, slow, careful. 

“What, so like a family thing?”

Meyer smirked. That was a fair assessment. Much as he discouraged it, even Jake was starting to get involved with a few of Meyer’s safer projects. “Everything I learned… it’s all passed down. Generation after generation. It’s a long story.” 

“Well we got plenty of time. Especially if…” Charlie trailed off and glanced down at his hands. He spun the ring on his finger, as he seemed to search for words he couldn’t find. “Look. It’s just me. I don’t got a whole family or partners or nothin’, and everything I do, it’s stuff I figured out. And I do alright for myself, but it ain’t good enough. I wanna be doin’ better than just alright. And I want you to show me how.” 

He paused, took a breath, and then stared at Meyer—something like defiant pride on his face, mingling with the uncertainty he seemed desperate to hide. Meyer, to Charlie’s credit, was surprised by the request. “You want me to teach you? That’s—No. I can’t.”  

“Of course you can!” Charlie insisted, leaning forwards. Their knuckles touched on the table. “Look, you just said, you learned it all from your family, but my family didn’t teach me nothin’ but how to duck. And you—it’s two times now, you stole somethin’ right off me and I didn’t even know. So far as I’m concerned, you gotta be the best there is.”  

Meyer took both of Charlie’s hands and held them, staring at him. Charlie looked surprised, but smiled and leaned closer, with an expectant look. Meyer did the same, until they were inches apart. In a whisper, he said, “Three times, actually.” 

“What?” 

The serious expression broke. Meyer grinned and sat back, leaning his chin in his hand. Charlie’s ring was on his finger. 

“You—” Charlie went to snatch it, but Meyer pocketed it before he had the chance. 

“C’mon,” he said and stood up. He tossed his cup into the garbage. “You can have it back when you get it from my pocket.” 

* * *

Charlie followed Meyer across the street to Bryant Park. Meyer kept his hands in his pockets the whole time, probably keeping a tight hold on his ring. To Charlie, that didn’t seem fair, if “steal it back” was the goal. How could you steal something when a person knew you were about to do it? His usual marks didn’t get advance warning. That was the whole point. 

As far as he was concerned, Meyer was testing his skills under unfair circumstances. And given how bad he’d fucked up last time, he really wanted to show he could do better. Because he could. He absolutely could. 

“So basics,” Meyer said. He reached for Charlie’s hand and held it, studying the finger where he normally wore his ring. Charlie watched him. He had no idea what Meyer was looking for on his finger, but he couldn’t say he minded the touch. Meyer was gentle about it. 

Something about him seemed much more relaxed. Meyer was in his element at last. “Do you want your ring back?” he asked with a smile, glancing up to finally meet his eye. 

Charlie stared. Wasn’t that the whole point? “Uh, yeah.” 

“Or,” Meyer continued. He held up his other hand. “Would you like this back first?” 

The watch Charlie wore on his left wrist dangled in front of him. He did a double take, staring at his arm in disbelief. “I didn’t—How did you—“

“You were busy thinking about your right hand,” Meyer explained. “Think about the right, steal from the left.” He looked smug about his little ploy. Just for that, Charlie wasn’t going to point out that it was _Meyer’s_ hand he was too busy thinking about. 

“Gimme that,” he said and grabbed his watch. Meyer didn’t resist. As he buckled it back on his wrist—how did Meyer undo the little buckle without Charlie even feeling it?—he heard Meyer laugh. When he looked up, Meyer was dangling another watch in front of him—the knock-off one from his pocket.  

“Quit doin’ that! You’re supposed to be teachin’ me shit, not just showin’ off.” 

Meyer apologized, though Charlie could tell he didn’t mean it. “Why’d you take it anyway? I’ve been meaning to ask. It can’t be worth much?” 

Charlie shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I grab all kinds of fakes. They’re good for leavin’ behind when you take the real deal off somebody.” 

“You mean like this?” Meyer waved an iPhone back and forth in front of his face—the one he’d stolen while Meyer stole his wallet. Charlie all but growled as he held out his hand for it.  

“Your problem is that you steal with your hands. It needs to come from the mind.” To Charlie, that sounded like a lot of crackpot superpower shit. “People are funny, Charlie. They’re slow, they can’t think about too much at once, and they’re easy to distract.” He spoke slow, with a greater articulation than when they’d been having coffee. He wondered if that was Meyer with his conning mask on. Everybody had something like that, a quirk or look they’d adopt when they were trying to pull one over on somebody. Meyer’s voice became soothing, rhythmic, so precise that he had you waiting for the next swell of his intonation. 

No wonder he was distracted. “So what’s that gotta do with hands and minds, huh?” 

“Everything connects. Actions and thoughts flow from one to the other. The trick is to see the patterns. You’ve got to be a few steps ahead. Take this, for example.” Meyer stepped alongside Charlie, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the ring. He held it out, for them both to study. Charlie waited for Meyer to comment on it—how his ring had to do with connecting and patterns or whatever—but after a split second pause, Meyer put it back in his pocket.

“What was the point of that?” Charlie demanded. 

“The point was that I just took your wallet. I didn’t even need to tell you to look at the ring, but it pulled your gaze, as I knew it would. So I could use that moment to reach around and grab your wallet.”  

Charlie sighed and held out his hand. Meyer placed his wallet, his cellphone, and both watches in the palm of his hand. Charlie just blinked. “When the fuck did you take all that?” 

Meyer smiled. “Still want your ring back?” he challenged. “Distract me.” 

“That’s no fair. You can’t distract somebody who’s waitin’ for it!” 

“I just did.” 

“No, you didn’t. I wasn’t—I thought you was gonna tell me somethin’—You know what, fuck you,” he shouted, advancing on him. He was just a little guy and it was easy to loom over him. “Fuck you, fuck your fuckin’ bullshit lesson. You don’t got a goddamn thing to tell me. You just wanna show off how fuckin’ smart you are ‘cause you want everybody thinkin’ you’re so great! Well I’m not puttin’ up with no smart-ass kid who can’t keep his goddamn hands to himself!”   

He finished his tirade and fell into a huffing silence. A few on-lookers had stopped to watch and Meyer eyed them warily. But he soon returned his cold stare to Charlie. His face had completely changed, frozen over with a look of frightening restraint. August didn’t seem warm anymore. “Fine,” he said, slow and stern. “If you don’t want my help—“ 

But Charlie let the smile spread slowly, as he unfurled his balled fist. The little gold circle of his ring gleamed in his palm. Brimming with pride in his accomplishment, he slipped it back onto his finger. “How’s that for a distraction?” 

To his great relief, Meyer relaxed. His hard look seemed to vanish with a breath. Warmth returned to the world as he exhaled. He looked Charlie over and nodded with approval. “Not bad. Bit too loud, but not bad.”  

“Hey, I got an idea. I’ll make you a bet.” Charlie bounded over to his side, fishing the stolen watch from his pocket. He was on a roll. “So you know how, the other night, you and me was passin’ that bracelet back and forth?”  

Meyer nodded, suspicious. “I can’t say I want this knock-off watch quite as much. And I wouldn’t say _passing_ is what happened, either.”  

“It’s not about the watch,” he said as he dropped it into Meyer’s palm. “But if I get somethin’ off of you, you gotta tell me how you started doin’ all this, alright?”  

Meyer regarded him for a moment, sighed, and then began fastening the watch onto his wrist. “Fine.” 

“Good!” Charlie beamed. “Cause I just took your phone. Didn’t say I hadda get the watch—just said I hadda get somethin’.”  

He worried Meyer would fight him on it, but he watched a look of surprise come over his face and then a genuine smile. It might have been the first genuine expression he’d seen. Sure, they were only strangers, but Charlie had never felt so proud of himself. “So you gonna spill or what?”  

Meyer grabbed his phone, tossed the watch to Charlie in exchange, and headed over to a recently-vacated table. Charlie pulled a chair beside him, watching his thoughtful expression with great attention. “So you said a family thing, right? Like you learned it all from your dad or somethin’ like that?” 

He nodded and agreed that it was something like that. “He learned from someone before him, and so it goes, back however many generations. There’s been a line of people teaching their tricks since the first one arrived in America—and maybe before that, but that’s as far as I know.” 

Charlie listened and watched him, not wanting to interrupt. It was hard enough to get Meyer talking, so he wasn’t going to risk stopping him to ask questions. But he couldn’t imagine what that would be like—learning tricks from your father, who learned from his father, all through the whole family. It seemed like a real cozy thing. And it must have been nice, to have somebody like that looking out for you while you learned. Charlie could have used that, when he was young and on his own and didn’t have a clue where to start. 

“When you have somebody like that, somebody older to mentor you, you learn a lot. You learn the basics, but you also learn all the mistakes made before you and how to improve,” Meyer explained. He was back to speaking slowly and carefully—with some hesitation. “And then you figure things out yourself, and you keep learning. And that’s how I got started. It is a family, where you start, but you can’t stay there. Everybody has to move out, right?” 

“So what do they do now? You still workin’ with all them, or they retired?” Charlie asked, since that couldn’t be the end of the story. “Hard to picture some grandpa pickin’ pockets. Though I guess nobody’d expect it, huh?”  

Meyer smiled with tight lips. “It might be a bit difficult, as he’s dead.”  

“Oh.” Charlie glanced down at his hands. He twisted his ring around. It was still warm from Meyer’s pocket. “Sorry. I didn’t—Sorry.” 

But Meyer shrugged and said not to worry about it. There was astounding indifference in his voice. “I didn’t know him. Teaching me happened after. His death necessitated a new partner and so it became my turn.” 

Either this old geezer had been working until the day he dropped or something had gone wrong along the way. Charlie nudged Meyer’s leg with his own, in gentle encouragement. “So was it somethin’… how’d he go?” He left his knee against Meyer’s, who didn’t move. 

“Have you ever heard of the Havana Escape Hatch?”  

Charlie just stared at him and shook his head. Meyer gave a tight, humorless smile. “They were gamblers, the pair of them. They played anywhere they could—and owned a number of places around the city. Well, one day, things got a little… dangerous. Accusations of cheating, guns out, demands made—well, you can imagine as well as I can.”  

Charlie nodded as he listened, hanging off Meyer’s every word. But Meyer just stared across the park, his body rigid and his eyes far away. He paused to let Charlie process, but he never once looked at him.

“That’s the whole idea of the Havana Escape Hatch. You shoot your partner. They think you’re not working together. You get away.” 

Charlie stared.  

No wonder Meyer didn’t seem too sentimental about his whole family business. And here Charlie thought they were a cozy little unit. But there was nothing cozy about, if his dad could shoot his grandpa just like that. Fuck, and Charlie thought _his_ father was bad. “So—so he killed him? Just like that?” 

“I said shoot, not kill,” Meyer bristled. Then he sighed, and added, “But yes. That’s how he died.” 

Charlie couldn’t even imagine that funeral. “How old were you?”  

“Fourteen. Maybe fifteen, tops.” 

That explained why Meyer was so good, if he started learning back then. But Charlie still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. How could a kid live with that? Family killing family, then turning around to say it’s your turn now? 

Meyer stood abruptly. “And there you have it. That’s how I got started.” He turned to go, but Charlie stood and grabbed his arm. 

“Hang on a second—” He couldn’t leave just like that! They were only just getting started. And maybe he pushed things too far getting Meyer to talk about his past, but Charlie swore to himself he wouldn’t do that again. They’d be all business from then on and nothing else.  

When Meyer turned, it was with deliberate slowness, an almost pained tension. He looked Charlie up and down, waiting for him to speak. Charlie’s confidence faltered, and he rocked on his heels, searching for the words. “I really wanna… do this again sometime. You teachin’ me, I mean.” 

“I’m too busy. I can’t—“  

“Please! You gotta. You’re the best there is and I can learn real quick. I’ll give you a cut of everything I steal, I promise! I just—” He sighed and smiled his most indulgent, most charming smile. It worked on everyone else, right? “We’d make a pretty good team, don’t you think?”  

Meyer exhaled and returned the smile. It was too tight, but it was something. Charlie relaxed, knowing that he had him. When Meyer spoke, his voice was articulate and precise once more as he said, “Of course, Charlie. Contact me anytime you’d like. We’ll arrange something.” He paused, then added, “You’ll find my number in your phone. I programed it while you were fussing with your watch.”

“You—” But he didn’t have the time to feel indignant, or even amazed at Meyer’s speed.  

“I’ll see you, Charlie,” Meyer said and it sounded like a promise. Before they parted, Charlie programed his own number into Meyer’s phone. They didn’t linger long and went their separate ways shortly thereafter. 

Charlie walked to the subway with far more enthusiasm. Even though he kept patting his own pockets, he had a good feeling about their partnership. He would learn a lot from Meyer; they’d be a good team. 

But as he waited for the train, he learned that he’d been right before about Meyer’s voice. He suspected that the careful articulation was part of the con, a mask for the lie. And he was right. As he scrolled through his contacts, he realized that Meyer never gave his number. 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the movie Focus. This AU will be following the movie plotline pretty closely.


End file.
